A Stately Crime
by jack63kids
Summary: When Sherlock hears of a suicide in Molly's morgue he can't resist. But what does Mycroft have to do with corpse of the mysterious Mr Parkinson and who's Myke? I published chapter by chapter, which was new to me ... maybe suspense/angst ... was for me anyway! NO slash, NOT Sherlolly. Some blood and gore and risque talk. Trying to make Ozcinefile's wish come true ...
1. Molly

**_Edited version of chapter 1 following Beta'ing and discussion with the lovely Edhla. Anything still awry is not her fault, as I sometimes rebel and do thing _the British way_! _=;-D_ Thanks, my friend._  
**

* * *

_**The following abbreviations were once used by the deaf community via minicom (teleprinter). Many are similar or the same as current text speak. Most of the deaf community would now text or email, etc**_  
_**BRB: Be Right Back**_  
_**CU: See You**_  
_**GA: Go Ahead**_  
_**SK: Stop Keys (pre-closing statement. like OK precedes goodbye in spoken closings)**_  
_**SKSK: Hanging up (used in reply to SK as confirmation that the replying keyer has nothing left to say and that both ends of the conversation are terminated)**_  
_**SK, SKGA: Goodbye**_  
_**PLS: Please**_  
_**OIC: Oh, I See**_  
_**NBR: Number**_  
_**TMW: Tomorrow**_  
_**THX: Thanks**_  
_**WRU: Who/where are You?**_

* * *

**Chapter 1: ****_Molly_**

HOOPER: Greg's available, or is it too soon, do you think? GA

WATSON: He's not your type, Molly. GA  
(Long pause)

HOOPER: What people mean when they say that, is that I'm not *his* type. GA

WATSON: Well, I mean what I say and say what I mean - he's not your type. You need someone more exciting than Greg Lestrade. Nice man, dull as ditchwater. GA

HOOPER: Sherlock's exciting. GA

WATSON: Sherlock's demeaning and a little too self absorbed to be an exciting partner at any time. Greg's patronising and a little too preoccupied to be an attentive partner currently. GA

HOOPER: So you think if I wait-

WATSON: Not for you, Molly. You deserve someone who'll sweep you off your feet and give you some romance. Neither of those nerds is capable of doing those things. Someone will turn up. GA

HOPPER: Not so far ... not for me ... THX anyway. GA

WATSON: There's someone for everyone in the universe, you just need to be patient and hang around bars ... oh no, I didn't mean that, hanging around bars is not a good way of picking up decent men. It's a great way of picking up a nasty disease, but not decent men. Or women for that matter. Believe me, I've hung around a few in my time. GA

HOOPER: THX, but with my track record I should just settle for my cats ... Oh, have to go, client coming in ... nice suicide by the looks of things ... SKGA

WATSON: WRU? GA

HOOPER: Morgue. Mx SK

WATSON: Laters! CU TMW. Hx SKSK

MOLLY: SKSKSKSKSKSK

The next message in the thread came some twenty or thirty seconds later when neither of the previous posters were at their screens to see ...

HOLMES: Why do you people always say suicide, just because there's a note, a locked room? - ludicrous!  
And you're over 10 yrs out of date, Harry Watson. The deaf community use modern tech just like anyone. Want to impress that woman, then text her to meet at VI's** like anyone else. SH

**_** VI's is short for Edward VI (6th), a pub in Islington frequented by the gay community. The rumour was that Edward VI was gay, so it's rather appropriate. It's also a really good pub, or was when I used to drop in._**

* * *

"I'm thinking about getting a dog. You can meet more people by having a dog than a cat. And I don't want to be the mad cat woman, the one whose half-eaten remains are found by her cleaner on a Thursday morning."

_'Why Thursday? What's so special about Thursdays!?' _Sherlock raised a single eyebrow.

"Ah, I see that Spock's eyebrow is branching out on its own," Molly said grinning. Being around John so much recently had been good for her. She was getting her sense of humour back again, finally, after Sherlock had so systematically crushed her. It wasn't a brilliant joke, but it showed a lack of regard for Sherlock's interests and area of expertise. He couldn't possibly know what she was talking about and she, uncharacteristically, didn't feel obliged to explain it to him without being asked. _And_ she didn't crumble into a heap when he gave her that look either - now that had to be progress. It helped that they were stooping over the deceased with scalpels in their hands. Molly liked doing something practical, it helped her to focus and so remain detached from Sherlock's scrutiny.

She'd dismissed the 'John being good for her' on more than a platonic level on more than one occasion of late. She kept returning to it though, until he turned up and she realised her feelings were more sisterly than anything else. Now why was it she couldn't fall for the good guys, the uncomplicated, easy to be around guys who didn't try to take over the world or murder all your friends? She was hopeful of her latest rendezvous, but was taking it very slow and hadn't got passed handholding so far. Handholding was her new third date upgrade and then a staple for fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh ... dates. She wasn't sure yet when she'd be ready for the next stage.

She carried on palpitating the left side of the abdomen, comparing it critically with the right, in the chest that she had cracked open earlier. Her attention was caught by Sherlock, who was looking at her in the same manner he might look at an interesting sample under his microscope.

"_What?_" she said with equal measures of sarcasm and amusement.

She was satisfied to see that he looked put out. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're not gibbering like you usually do. You're not making that ugly shape with your lower mouth and you're wearing make-up. Something different about your manner ..." He peered into her face as if trying to unmask an impostor.

"I'm over you, Sherlock, and I've gotten myself a life," she said proudly. "That's all, nothing mysterious."

"I had no idea that you were ever _under_ me," he said with a characteristic lack of tact and a slightly petulant tone. Molly was feeling progressively smug that she didn't so much as blush at the suggestion. She really was over him after all.

"You're seeing someone!" he accused. "You're seeing an American, you have a date on Thursday and you don't want anyone to know for some reason. CIA possibly." It wasn't a question.

"I didn't want _you _to know for good reason. You spoil things, Sherlock Holmes, and you're rude to nice people and hurt their feelings. You hurt my feelings - often. I don't mind anyone else knowing. And no, not CIA. I have enough spies, agents and detectives in my life already. Americans come to this country for a lot more reasons than espionage. Nice, uncomplicated man, works in the City - Trader."

Molly turned back to the body they were working on. "Ok, let's see now, upper pulmonary blockage - clot in the main artery of the left lung - Most likely Venous Thromboembolism resulting in obstruction of the blood flow through the lungs ... resultant pressure on the right ventricle leading to acute myocardial infarction," she said thinking aloud into the dictaphone, all the time gently poking a pair of thoracic retractors into the parts of the body she was describing.

"Oh, so that's the story he gave you." Sherlock glared at Molly.

"Ok, you've nothing to base any of that on. Not a story; the truth. He's just what he says he is, I've been to his office." She took an oversized forceps and pulled at a huge, bloody clot, which came away with a sickening sucking noise and a nasty smell. "He's a trader in Futures, whatever that is."

"Well, he would say that. And I don't need evidence. You don't do 'ordinary' Molly. Your last boyfriend was a criminal mastermind."

Molly slipped the sample carefully into the evidence bag. "Oooo, sample of one! Never thought I'd hear the Great Detective jump to conclusions on such slim evidence." Molly took a deep breath and congratulated herself on not caving. She'd slightly lost her cool, but at least she'd held her own and not let him bully her this time. "Anyway, I've had three perfectly normal ones since then," she continued more calmly.

"And what kind of phony name is Dirk anyway?" Sherlock was pouting. It took all Molly's self-control not to laugh out loud. It seemed inappropriate in front of Mr Parkinson, who was stretched out on her table, the inside of his chest exposed to the world. She wanted to apologise to him for the whole ludicrous conversation. But how did Sherlock know that - _'don't ask, Molly, never ask, it never ends well.'_

* * *

"Told you it wasn't suicide," Sherlock said when they'd finished and Molly was carefully sewing up Mr Parkinson's chest.

_The dead deserve a bit of care and dignity, _Molly though, completing a tiny stitch and casting off expertly. "No you didn't," she said. "In fact you didn't say anything at all, for over half an hour, until I started talking about dogs to wind you up." Her eyes were sparkling as she snapped off her latex gloves with more bravado than she'd been ever able to muster when Sherlock was in the vicinity before.

"Yes, indeed I did; when I messaged you when you asked me to come out to examine the body."

"Didn't get that." Molly glanced down at her phone. She clicked absentmindedly on the last message thread. "And I certainly didn't invite you over."

"You said suicide, and then I said, it's not, and then I came over to prove it, and prove it I have."

"So Lestrade didn't ask you to come then?" Molly clicked her phone. "You said, when you came in, that he asked you to be here."

"_You _said that. You sounded so convinced that I didn't like to disillusion you. John's always saying I shouldn't keep correcting people, that it's rude. So I kept my peace. Nothing I do is ever right!" he whined like a petulant toddler.

Molly had accessed the message by then. "You were reading my private conversation with Harry?" Her voice rose, but it wasn't because she was asking a question.

Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock in the same way he had done to her on so many uncomfortable occasions. "Anyway, what's so interesting about deep vein thrombosis that brings the great Sherlock Holmes out on a night like this? Common or garden variety of long haul flight side effect."

Sherlock looked gleeful, finally the conversation was coming around to his area of expertise and a chance to shine ... "Oh, it's anything but common or garden, Molly Hooper. I do like a good murder mystery, don't you?"


	2. Myke

**CHAPTER 2: ****_Myke  
_**

"Ok, think about it. Why would a man who dies of natural causes write a suicide note?"

Molly looked at Sherlock disdainfully. "I imagine that he wanted to kill himself and then died unexpectedly before he was able to carry it out."

"He's locked in a room, alone, with no obvious means of killing himself and he writes a _note_. Why would he do something like that, pray tell?"

"I _said_; he was _about _to, but nature got there first."

"And_ I _said; locked room, alone, no obvious means."

"Oh! But how would you make someone have a pulmonary embolism, brought on by deep vein thrombosis? They're not predictable. There are risk factors, sure; long term immobilisation, obesity, long haul flights, pregnancy, cancer, protein deficiency, that kind of thing. But you can't just _induce _one."

"Our corpse here has recently been on a long haul flight. He has signs of other long periods of inactivity that aren't a direct causal result of his _current_ state of inactivity."

Molly had to admire Sherlock's choice of terminology sometimes. Given his usual bluntness, why not just say dead? "You mean they are not as a result of him being dead," she filled in for him.

"Just so. ... And add that lack of exertion, resultant poor circulation, to a powerful clotting agent ... Test him for drugs; abnormally high levels of estrogen, anything with similar chemistry to recombinant factor 7a ..."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "That was developed for treating haemophilia - used more commonly in the States for heart surgery ... until they found it was doing at least as much harm as good. It's been in decline since 2011 when the Stamford Team published their report."

"And are you not finding the American connections heaping up?" Sherlock was all but rubbing his hands together in glee. "Too many for coincidence."

"This is the first time the States have been mentioned ... other than my date with Dirk-" Molly caught Sherlock's eye. "Oh, surely not. You're not suggesting that Dirk is connected with this guy's death?" Molly was looking like thunder, standing with her hands on her hips.

"We need to see Mycroft." Sherlock punched some numbers into his phone and it obligingly bleeped after a very short wait. "Just time to run those blood tests before he gets here," he said smugly after reading Mycroft's response.

Molly sighed. "Ok, but I'm getting sandwiches first. I've skipped too many meals for you ..."

Sherlock looked offended and then stared down at the corpse before them as if appealing to him for support.

* * *

Mycroft arrived fashionably late. They'd had time for sandwiches, a whole batch of tests as well as some ghastly canteen tea in waxed paper mugs with some rather stale biscuits that Sherlock had found in a tin. Molly wondered if she'd actually been given tea or some watery Japanese soup. She'd once had some instant miso, out of a packet, which had tasted as green as it looked and was rather reminiscent of the ditchwater she was currently sipping. Real Miso was a different matter, she suspected that the packet variety had been the same vintage as the biscuits that Sherlock was tucking into now.

When Mycroft did arrive, he proceeded to make his assessment in a much shorter time than waiting for his arrival had been.

"Ah, yes, Parkinson. One of our lot. Such a shame. Social conscience. Rotarian, I believe." He asked to see the man's jacket, rifled through the pockets with an expression that gave nothing away, and then returned the few items before folding the jacket carefully and replacing it in the evidence tray.

"Come for afternoon tea tomorrow, it 'll be nectar after the frightful filth they serve here, and we'll have a little chat. I'd like to hear about your findings from the autopsy in more depth than I can manage presently."

"What time?" Molly asked innocently.

"The usual," Mycroft answered with no hint of irony. Molly looked distressed, knowing that this was a class trick to make her feel small and stupid. Anyone of any higher status would be sure to know instinctively.

Sherlock sniggered slightly. "Don't worry, I'll get you there at the appointed time for torture by cucumber sandwich," he said with some acidity as Mycroft swept from the room, swinging his umbrella jauntily.

* * *

Mycroft was the gracious host when they arrived, taking Molly's jacket from her himself, even though she knew he had staff to attend to his every need. Sherlock was having none of the fine manners and stuck his feet up on the occasional table in between his and Molly's chairs the moment he sat down on the pretty patio overlooking Mycroft's well-tended garden.

"Manners, brother, there's a lady present!"

Molly stuck her feet up too. There was something about the elegant set-up and Mycroft's stuffy affectations that made her want to rebel.

"I don't think that he meant you!" Sherlock said, causing them both to dissolve into giggles.

Mycroft glanced at his watch. "Somewhere you need to be?" Sherlock asked impishly.

Mycroft scowled at him without actually looking in his direction. It was a talent that was peculiar to Mycroft. He waved his hand discretely in the direction of the French doors or at least it would have been discrete if Sherlock hadn't started commenting loudly on not being able to get efficient help these days.

"It's three minutes past, Mycroft," Sherlock warned, "and I'm worried that the sandwiches will go soggy and the tea be stewed."

Not many have ever heard Mycroft swear before, but there it was - "_Bugger off, Sherlock!_"

Molly actually found the food provided really quite delicious and served so elegantly. She realised by then that Mycroft was doing everything in his power to make her feel comfortable and she rather regretted her initial impulses to misbehave. She took a delicate nibble at the fancy bruschetta bite in her hand. Lovely.

"The corpse, Sherlock, that was _'Hammond'_. "

"And why are you saying _'Hammond' _in inverted commas like it wasn't really his name, dear brother?"

"Very clever. Mummy always said never to ask a question you don't know the answer to when it comes to disciplining children - and don't think that you can try her tone on me, dear boy!" Mycroft dabbed his napkin carefully over his lips.

Molly scowled, she had no idea what they were talking about and she needed to know. "Why are you saying _Hammond _at all? His name was Parkinson, Eric Parkinson. I saw all the documentation they got from his cousin who came to identify the body."

"Codename, Hammond. Our agent was involved in a horrendous car crash nearly a year ago but walked away unscathed following a lengthy stay in hospital. The back-room boys thought it was amusing to name his next assignment after a TV personality who was fool enough to drive a car too fast for him to handle and who spent weeks in intensive care with a nasty touch of coma. I don't expect you will have sampled the delights of Top Gear, Sherlock, uhm?" Mycroft did not pause for a response. "Our agent was carrying out a simple courier task, his first after sick leave, and managed to lose something that was rather important to the British Government before he died. A set of journals, that are codenamed the Hammond Diaries. That's the reason he gave in his suicide note - the loss of those journals."

Mycroft looked pensive and avoided any eye contact with his guests. Molly wondered how well he had known the deceased and whether Mycroft was displaying some human emotion. He must have known the man - Sherlock said he vetted and briefed his agents personally. He hadn't shown any emotion, however, during his visit to the morgue and she wondered how the Holmes boys had managed to learn to conceal their feelings so well. She knew they had them. She had seen Sherlock when he asked her to help him fake his own death and knew that he suffered internally, even if he didn't show it to the world. Mycroft, she wasn't so sure about.

The object of her speculation looked up suddenly, with one of his characteristic, mirthless smiles and said, "And that's all you need know at present. If there is any chance, and I mean any chance at all of recovering them, Sherlock ... You will be well rewarded. It's an issue of the highest national security."

One of Mycroft's lackeys came and hovered by his shoulder until he turned and with a cutting tone asked what the interruption was about.

"The Foreign Secretary to see you. He's waiting in your office, Sir."

Mycroft excused himself with considerable grace.

* * *

The Foreign Secretary was leaning on the desk, looking more haggard than when last Mycroft had seen him in the security briefing at the recent Party Conference. He turned when Mycroft came in. "So sorry to keep you waiting, Foreign Secretary."

The other man smiled for the first time and walked over to his host. "I'm so sorry about Parkinson, Mycroft, so _deeply_ sorry." He squeezed both of Mycroft's hands in his own; a sympathetic look, a voice usually reserved for the spouse of the deceased.

"Thank you, dearest boy," Mycroft replied, virtually devoid of inflection of any kind.

"If there's anything I can do. Anytime you want to talk, have a laugh over old times. I know Parky would want me to - oh, you know, Myke."

Mycroft looked positively wistful as he walked over to the window, his back to the Minister as he said, "No one has called me that for the longest time."

"Seemed apt, that someone should, as Parky's not here to do so. He still loved you, you know. He never blamed you for what happened, Mycroft."

"I have managed to keep this - this 'liaison' - from my brother. Give me a moment to compose myself before we go out there and join him and his delightful assistant ... I cannot face either his sympathy or mockery, it's a game of Russian roulette where I never win.

"Just, just ... call me Myke one more time ..."


	3. Paul

**Chapter 3: ****_Paul_**

_**This chapter is for my friend MapleleafCameo who came up with some imaginative Canadian slang and can deplore my abuse/misuse of the Canadian people in her reviews ...**_  
_**And for Arty Diane, whose 'So, Sherlock', series inspired Molly's musing in the garden and Paul's Wonderland moment ...**_  
_**And for Ennui Enigma who suggested estrogen ...**_

Mycroft was completely composed by the time he walked back out into the garden with the Foreign Secretary. Sherlock eyed them as if they were an interesting species of alien.

Molly wondered, absently, if he was either about to produce a magnifying glass from his pocket to study them or would say, "_No room, no room!_" like in her favourite scene from Alice in Wonderland. She could see Sherlock as the Mad Hatter, but who Mycroft would be was beyond her - '_the Walrus perhaps'_, she thought, trying not to giggle. She shook her head surreptitiously to rid herself of her daydreaming and launched in with her findings on Mycroft's prompt.

"A quick analysis of the tablets in Parkinson's bathroom cabinet showed them not to be the aspirin that they claimed to be." Molly sighed deeply. "The poor man hadn't stood a chance really given his history and what they contained. Highly powerful coagulants. Would have resulted in blood clots, which might have killed him at any time." The Minster shot a worried look in Mycroft's direction, but Mycroft seemed undeterred.

Molly continued, "Sherlock, you were right about it being in the medication he was taking. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make them look exactly like the aspirin he was probably taking to thin his blood. Naturally, they were having the opposite effect from what he believed.

"The other result is less conclusive though, Minister. Might just be a bit of luck for the murderers. It's quite possible that the high levels of estrogen in his system were elective hormone therapy prior to a sex change."

Mycroft snorted through his nose and put his napkin back up to his face while he composed his features.

The Minister stepped in. "He was way over the rainbow but he wasn't taking hormone therapy. He wasn't that kind of gay. Don't ask me how I know. Whatever you may have found, young lady, that result was not of his own making."

The Minister asked some more questions about recombinant factor 7a and its effects combined with estrogen. Molly thought that he was angling for how painful a death the agent had suffered and she tried to reassure him all she could. Heart attacks could be painful affairs, but some people just dropped down dead. She erred towards the latter possibility, though some of her findings during the autopsy pointed in the other direction.

She wondered how intimately the Minister had known about the nature of the man's gayness, and whether that was why he was so concerned about the extent of his suffering. The Foreign Secretary was well known to have a beautiful wife and three of the most photogenic children in Westminster. But she knew of plenty of men who had seemed happily married before running off with their male personal trainer or the pool boy. Not many had then started wearing dresses and calling themselves Barbara though, she admitted to herself.

Sherlock eyed his brother with less than fraternal concern. "What was he _doing _for you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and shifted ever so slightly in his chair.

"Top secret, can't possible divulge. You'll have to do your sleuthing without that little morsel of information." He looked uncomfortable and Molly felt sorry for him. She had a feeling that Sherlock was being spiteful to his brother in some obscure way and, in the past few hours, she had developed an urge to protect the portly man. He seemed to her to be vulnerable under all his English stiff upper lip ways.

She was about to intervene when Sherlock smiled sweetly and said, "We've done the how, and the why, surely the who is more your line of enquiry, dear brother?"

* * *

Paul LaPorte of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service was enjoying his current assignment. Not so much for the work itself, it was a relatively mundane affair of investigating a breach of online security that effected the Bank of Montreal. It wasn't so boring as funds being syphoned but seemed to be a more insidious than common theft or he'd not have been assigned to investigate. There were terrorist connections and a serious threat to the relationship with the British authorities.

It wasn't usual to leave Canadian shores on his investigations but, in this case, he was the recognised expert and he'd been glad of the opportunity for some travel overseas.

It was the location and the company that he was keeping that was what made it worth leaving his hearth and slippers behind in Port Coquitlam. He'd always liked London. There was something quirky and intense about the city. It was a contradiction of styles and lack of taste that appealed to his sense of humour. But more than that, there was a certain woman who had caught his eye on this trip. Her accent melted him every time and it would have been easy for him to take his eye off the assignment if it hadn't been so important for him to succeed. She reminded him of what he liked best about London; she also had contradictions, her elegance and yet shyness appealed to him. She wasn't a classic beauty, but she had soulful eyes and he was a sucker for soulful eyes when matched with a British accent.

It had been chance that he had met her and she wasn't connected with the case on which he was working. It was a relief not to be dating someone who lied for a living, whichever side they were on in the game. He'd dated colleagues and people he'd been investigating, but those, by definition, would never go anywhere and he was a stay at home guy by inclination, despite his career choices.

He was posing as a trader in the City and had already gained the trust of the main suspects. Harvey Walsh had motive and opportunity to have committed the monetary fraud by transferring funds into an offshore account. He didn't have the computer acumen however, though he could be working with an accomplice. Then again, his English upperclass twit persona could be a well executed act.

There were a couple of traders who seemed to be throwing more money around of late. It turned out that one of them had come into a substantial inheritance and was sharing it with his lover. He figured it wasn't his business to divulge this piece of personal information to their employers, so he neglected to mention them at all in his reports back to his own office who might share any details with the London based company.

Then there was the regulator from the Financial Services Authority (FSA) who he was liaising with, Charles van Vechten. He never trusted anyone who had got so high in the profession and was so self-effacing. They were arrogant SOBs, to a man, good at what they did and believing themselves to be even better. This guy was falling over himself to say how humble and unworthy he was - the fake.

Paul also suspected the rather intrusive woman who was part of the custodial staff, Katie O'Neill, who seemed to specialise in the seventh floor - it was certainly the cleanest floor in the building - the floor that held the computing systems that had been hacked to Canada's detriment. And wasn't that a rather suspicious name for someone not obviously Irish?

It wasn't that she was impertinent, meddlesome and inquisitive about everything that went on around her. Plenty of students worked periodically doing menial jobs these days and clever people also took temp jobs or worked at something mentally undemanding if they chose to.

Her clothing conflicted with her role as a custodian on minimum wage, working for an agency. Just the odd 'mistake', like a scarf that was obviously from Harrods or her jewellery, a ring that would have cost a small fortune. She saw him eying her Gucci handbag once, and all too quickly said, "knock-off, got it cheap in Camden Market". Yeah, right. He could tell the difference. And then she turned up next day with a replacement and it looked liked she'd mugged a bag-lady to get hold of it.

He'd been given the phone number for a Sherlock Holmes by the MI6 agent who'd contacted him on his arrival. He rang the number given, listening to silence that went on too long before the dialing tone started. '_What is it with English systems and the English public who put up with substandard service? It wouldn't happen in Vancouver, let alone be tolerated._' It connected finally and rang for less than a full ring before it was answered, like the recipient had been waiting with him for it to connect.

"_Yes!_" the curt crisp tones of the English upper classes. Paul smiled to himself. _He's either going to be another dink or a genius_ - _my guess is genius or I wouldn't have been given his personal number._

"Well hello! Mr Holmes, I presume, eh?"

"What _exactly _in my tone led you to believe that I was answering for a little chat-chat? State your business or get off my personal line!"

Paul wondered if the man ever spoke in anything but staccato phrases followed by exclamation marks and realised that what this odd conversation reminded him of was his favourite scene from Alice in Wonderland where Alice meets the caterpillar. He suppressed a grin.

"Paul laPorte of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. I was given your name and contact by MI6 in connection with a case I'm working on at Donahue, Levin and Levin. I need your assistance in shifting through some of information concerning employees in a case of national importance-"

"British or Canadian national importance?" the voice snapped.

"Both, I'd say-"

"So you don't know which country you're working for, you can't analyse your own data and you're wasting my time with no indication what possible interest this might be-"

Paul was having trouble getting out a full sentence and wondered whether the conversation was going anywhere, so he did some hasty interrupting of his own.

"Mr Holmes, if you don't listen to the evidence, how you can you possibly-"

"Send me what you have, I'll look into it," the voice said wearily, and the line went dead.


	4. Dirk or 'To Boldly Go'

**Chapter 4: ****_Dirk_** (alternative title - _To Boldly Go_)

Sherlock ran his eye down the descriptions of the various players and tried not to admit too loudly in his head that the report was detailed and relevant; this Canadian guy knew what he was doing. Well, not like Sherlock knew what he was doing, "but can't expect miracles, eh, John?" he said aloud, despite that fact that John was still away and would be for some days yet.

He wondered if he could come to a conclusion without visiting the hell-capital of financial London. He didn't fancy a trip out in the cold, and the City had never been his cup of tea, too many cocky bastards in suits - as if Mycroft wasn't already enough.

He might need to see Charles van Vechten briefly; the upperclass twit, Harvey Walsh, was a open book that just needed stamping. The cleaner was obvious too. He'd met her type before, possibly even met _her_ before and a quick eye-ball would confirm that. That decided it, 6.50 am at Donahue, Levin and Levin's - perfectly timed to catch the cleaner and the day workers with as little trouble to him as was possible - not Sherlock's idea of bliss, especially without John by his side interpreting the weirderies of social contact, but doable.

He toyed with the idea of waking Molly, but decided against. She would never make up for his flatmate's levelheaded advice and guidance. Sherlock hadn't liked to admit to himself how much he'd grown to rely on his friend, but it was unavoidable with him being away for so long. His skull had John's patience, but it was a bit exposing talking to it in public places and Yorick liked the cold less than he did.

* * *

Mycroft was on the phone for the third time already that week to the Foreign Secretary and still had little to report. He could tell this was getting to them both. The Minister had just asked him if he knew where the tagline, '_this time ... it's personal_' originally came from and he was actually Googling while they talked to find out. It bothered him that the consensus seemed to be a Jaws sequel. Not even the original film, but a poor sequel.

He hadn't wanted so much to get back in the field for many, many years, not since the Turkish Monk mission. A whole lifetime away - not his lifetime, he thought ruefully. It was frustrating being stuck there in the office, not able to wring the truth out of those bastards with his bare hands, like the old days ...

* * *

Sherlock felt like a stalker as he crept up on the cleaner - but she had it coming. "Hello, Kitty, Fleet Street not paying so well since my resurrection?" He was rewarded by a little jump and a double-take from the startled reporter. If Sherlock knew anything about popular culture, he might have been reminded of some of Cary Grant's most famous roles.

"It's _Katie_ when I'm here," she said in a petulant voice, "And we don't print from Fleet Street anymore, as you well know."

"Fleet Street, Soho, it's all the same to me, you and your nasty snooping ways, prostituting yourself for the latest scoop ..."

Kitty looked mildly amused. "Get to you then, did I, Great Detective?" She snorted derisively and swished her broom around a floor that already looked shiny enough to skate on. "I made a mint out of that Rich Brook story and now I'm getting all the investigative reporting I could ever want. Maybe they _still_ don't believe in the fairy at the top of 221B Baker Street." She grinned at him nastily. "Where's your lap-dog then, Shirley? In the dog house?"

Sherlock ignored her last remark and decided to find out what she knew. "So what's to investigate here then? Hardly your usual gig, Kitty." He pitched his voice at what he hoped would qualify as friendly, basing his ideal on John's dulcet tones. It didn't work quite the way he'd hoped, as a look of suspicion crossed the reporter's face.

"What's that to you?" she said, leaning on the broom now and glaring at him in a less than friendly way.

He thought he'd try a little reveal to see if she reacted. "Well, I would have thought the real story was in Canada," he said, watching her eyes carefully. All he could detect was confusion however, so no help there, other than to rule her out as a useful source.

"What do you mean? What's in Canada?" She looked hungry as only reporters who believe that they are onto a juicy scoop can do.

Sherlock walked away smiling. He'd learnt all he needed to, there was obviously more than one potential story in that high-rise hell. Bankers were big news again since the latest scandal had broken in the City and traders were fair game by association. She was probably working on a general exposé of City practices. No interest to him.

He ignored her entreaties to come back and explain himself and strode out of the open plan office into a corridor with a row of fancy offices. He poked his nose round Harvey Walsh's office. The man was there, asleep on his desk and looked like he'd been there all night. Sherlock stepped past his prone body and moved a couple of papers using a pencil her found on the desk. _Hurm, interesting._

Van Vechten's officer was even easier to find, having the corner office with the best views as Sherlock predicted.

Van Vechten wasn't there though. Sherlock felt slightly put out, the man _should_ be there to fit the profile of man pretending to be ingratiating. But then again he could be brown-nosing in some bigwig's office, but who ...

Sherlock turned on his heels and headed back through the open plan office, dodging past the jobbing reporter who was now half perched on the desk making eyes at a rather good looking computer nerd. She didn't seem to notice him as he sped past.

Van Vechten was at a water cooler having a hissing contest with a lanky youth who looked like he was getting the upper hand over the older man. Sherlock cast his eyes over the pair from a distance and made his assessment. Easier than he'd thought, he'd be back to his favourite chair for elevenses. He texted a still-absent John to put the kettle on as he hailed a taxi.

* * *

Tea with Molly and her new beau hadn't been quite what Sherlock had had in mind - where _was_ John? - but it would at least kill several birds with one stone - American loons if he wasn't too much mistaken.

"Would you like cream in your tea, Sure-lock?"

"I'd rather split an infinitive to be frank," Sherlock said acidly glowering from under his unruly curls.

"He means no," Molly said straight-faced when she saw Dirk's look of good natured confusion.

She glanced at Dirk's giant Star Trek badge with the famous catch phrase of the show emblazoned across it, in what the makers must have considered to be futuristic typeface. She liked he was a Trekky, showed a spark of a sense of humour. That was the only culture gap that bothered her. She was never sure if her attempts at humour were taken too seriously. Either his sense of humour was really dry ... or he didn't have one.

"What were you doing at Donahue, Levin and Levin's this morning and in what capacity do you know Kitty Riley, Dirk?"

Dirk looked slightly bemused. "Well, Sure-lock, I work there. Analyst, don't you know. But I don't know any Kitty - what you say? O'Riley?"

"So you're an analyst? In the City? Donahue, Levin and Levin's? How long for exactly, _Dirk_?" Sherlock was at his acid best, or worst from Molly's point of view. "And, what sort of name is Dirk anyway?"

Dirk showed all his teeth when he beamed like that; he had surprisingly pointy canines. "Well, I've been in your capital nearly three weeks now, Sure-lock. As for the name, my mom was a fan of the movies, you know? Loved your Dirk Boggard. Wonderful actor - not so sure she'd have been so thrilled that he turned out to be a 'bender' as you limeys would say. Lovely woman, not known for her tolerance."

"And your rather unusual accent? Can't quite place-"

"Oh, I've been around. Born in Luisiana, moved to Miami when I was seven, most of my formative years, if you know what I'm saying, spent in New Jersey ..."

Dirk was being unusually tolerant of Sherlock's rudeness. He looked neither offended nor puzzled and Molly wonder why he was still being so nice and before she knew it she spoke aloud. Only one husky word came out of her mouth, however, "_Why?_"

"Why did we move to New Jersey, honey?" he looked truly puzzled for the first time.

Molly swallowed hard. "No, why are you letting Sherlock talk to you like that? Why aren't you telling him to piss off? Most people do you know." Molly knew why she had tolerated Sherlock's rudest previously and she wondered whether Dirk had similar reasons. He wouldn't be the first of her boyfriends to be more interested in her friend than her.

Dirk smiled again. "That's ok, honey. He's just looking out for you. To be honest, I'm grateful." Dirk, squeezed her hand and she felt slightly reassured.

Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with the oh so charming Dirk, but something was amiss. Molly didn't do ordinary. She made huge - colossally huge - mistakes where it came to what she laughingly called her love life in her sickeningly romantic blog. And wasn't it a little, teeny, tiny bit of a stonking-great coincidence that it just so happened that he was working in the very company that Sherlock was investigating? _Hurm, Dirk?_

* * *

When they'd gone, Sherlock's text to Paul laPorte was short and to the point.

Forget cleaner - love lorn reporter, hence spotless 7th floor;  
Concentrate on son of van Vechten - in debt to eyeballs & computer genius. SH

_'Boring!'_ he thought. '_Now where's John with my tea?_'

* * *

**_NOTES: _**

**_Fleet Street used to be where the English newspapers had their printing-presses until the 80s;_**  
**_Soho used to be the red-light district of London, tends to move around a bit these days, but I hear Kings Cross can be profitable at night ..._**  
**_Brown nosing - toadying, sucking up, ingratiating one's self to those of higher status;_**  
**_To boldly go! - catch phrase of the original Star Trek series and most famous popular example of the split infinitive;_**  
**_For any other obscure references and Britishisms, please PM me._**


	5. Mycroft

**Chapter 5:****_ Mycroft_**

"No, he's not back ... Not as such ... no, Minister." Mycroft sighed wearily. "I believe the culprit is connected with his operation and is doling out revenge on behalf of his erstwhile boss."

Mycroft shifted the telephone to his other ear and opened the drawer to the right of his desk with his free hand.

"He's out of our reach for the time being. My intelligence tells me that North Korea are involved in his disappearance. No ... It's too sensitive there currently for a recon mission."

Mycroft stroked his right hand down a cashmere scarf that was lovingly folder on top of some papers marked deceased.

"So that, is that, as they say. I'm closing the case, with your permission, naturally, Minister." A single tear dropped onto the file under his hand. "Thank you, Minister...

"Yes, and send my best to Valerie ... yes ... yes ... do tell her ... next Sunday? ... that would be lovely ... and ... _Douglas_? Thank you. I couldn't have- ... yes ... I know, but thank you anyway."

* * *

Sherlock's second tea date with Molly and her beau was even more enlightening than the first. When Molly had texted him to say to get over and that she had important information to give, he'd been skeptical, but this had been worth it. It was good to not only be proved right but to tie up the case with ribbons and bows, all by walking into a room ...

Molly, however, was not having a good day. She looked at the man she'd been calling Dirk for weeks and wondered if it were a crime to murder someone who didn't exist. She'd not get used to calling him Paul, whatever else happened.

"You were right about van Vechten Jnr, Sherlock. Got him bang to rights, as you Brits would say." Paul leant back in his chair smiling broadly, but not showing his canines.

"Didn't care that some of the biggest terrorists in the world were using the finances he so generously released to him for their terrifying gains."

Sherlock had been less than pleased to have been kept in the dark by the Canadian agent. '_Bloody Mounties!_' he thought to himself, smiling at how much more fun this would have been with John there. John would have appreciated that insult for its complexity.

"Yeah, sorry, Sherlock, for all that teeth-flashing stuff and the fake accent. Couldn't have you blowing my cover. Tried to throw you off the trail by impersonating the CIA. Molly said you had a thing about them for some reason."

"So _that's _why you were with Molly!"

Molly looked stricken.  
"Huh? No. Molly's just Molly. My one regret in this, other than trying to dupe the Great Detective, is not being able to tell the woman I'm coming to believe might be the one ..." He reached for Molly's hand. "Can you forgive me, Molly, _eh_?'

"Oh yes, forgive certainly." Molly said while extricating her hand and chewing at an errant strand of hair. "But I don't think we're really right for each other, Dirk - I mean Paul."

Paul dropped her hand, an unfathomable look on his handsome features. He looked like he wasn't used to being rebuffed, but if only she knew what was really going through his mind, she might have relented.

This was the first time his faultless smile slipped and he looked like a schoolboy who had failed an important exam. Molly almost felt sorry for him - or she would have if he'd not turned out be a blinking spy. She was fed-up of intrigue and '_exciting_'. What she wanted was a little '_boring_' in her life, a hearth and slippers kind of guy. Her best friend was exciting enough for anyone.

* * *

When Paul returned to his hotel bedroom it seemed stark and cold. It had seemed so elegant when he'd arrived and he'd felt he'd had a glimpse at a stately life in espionage.

It was probably pride that prevented him from telling them all the true nature of his profession. He liked to model himself on the Canadian World War Two spy, William Stephenson, but in actual fact he was more of a legally operating Pierre-Guy Lavoie, one with an appreciation of Am Dram, mostly Gilbert and Sullivan. He was an analyst from a company outside Vancouver who hired themselves out as computer specialist. A computer geek for hire.

Over the past couple of years they'd been contracted by the CSIS to help with their enquiries with computer fraud connected with terrorist groups. Paul tended to be given any of the jobs that meant leaving their homes or offices. He was the most personably of a bunch of hosers with bad hair cuts and could slip unnoticed into any smart organisation without drawing attention to himself. He was as socially gauche as the rest, but found that he could act his way through most situations, pretending to be his hero, Will Stephenson, super-spy or a confident Yank about town, if it came to it.

In reality he was painfully shy and had a dry sense of humour that didn't go down well with many fellow Canadians he met in his line of work. It was all through a persona that he had plucked up courage to speak to the lovely Molly Hooper at all. He'd followed her to the hospital canteen the day that they'd met, on route to visit his colleague who'd been admitted with acute appendicitis and the real reason they had flown him on such an important mission at short notice.

If he'd still had the courage to tell Molly all this, _the sook_, things might have turned out differently for the hapless couple. He didn't like any kerfuffle and slipped away quietly with no fanfares. When his plane flew out of Heathrow, there was no heartbroken Molly Hooper waving as it disappeared into the clouds and no reason for him to ever return to the cloudy island that he'd grown to love as much as the sweet pathologist.

* * *

Kitty couldn't understand what had happened with the big, gorgeous American guy she'd been flirting with the past couple of weeks. Things seemed to have been coming along well there, he was attentive and obviously liked her company. They chatted any available moment when they met when their shifts overlapped - he obviously came in early to spend more time with her - and she was sure that a genuine invite to take her out was on the cards.

And then he disappeared and there were some whisperings around the office that she overheard about who he really was. A Canadian policeman of sorts, or so they said. And van Vechten had gone too, but under a cloud. She had no idea what had happened but it had something to do with that Holmes guy. '_You repel me!_' she hissed under her breath.

* * *

Mycroft had agreed too readily to take over the investigation into what happened to the Hammond agent. Sherlock didn't like it and made a few enquiries of his own anyway. What he turned up concerned him. The man hadn't been of any great importance. He had failed his mission and would have been given a long holiday and some retraining and not be given important cases for some time. It wasn't so much the murder as the interest that murder caused that phased Sherlock. Why were both a high up government minister and his brother interested in this little man? One or other of them had a personal interest and Mycroft was as interested in liaisons as Sherlock was himself, so how could that be?

What he found, however, was a confusing trail of contacts between Mycroft and Parkinson. Foreign travel where they were both in the same place at the same time, too many times for coincidence; assignments that seemed to need an unprecedented amount of briefing.

* * *

Here he was again, sat in front of Mycroft and that idiot who runs the Foreign Office. Just '_two posh boys who don't know the price of milk_' he thought spitefully. '_What do they know about real people and their problems? How dare they dismiss me from this investigation!_'

Sherlock had conveniently forgotten that it was he who had dismissed himself, and had found it was not hard to get reinstated when he texted Mycroft and demanded to be heard.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold. They didn't murder this man to stop him from doing something. He was a walking time bomb that could have gone off at any time. It might have taken months or even years. He's been taking those phony pills since he was in that crash. They were playing the long game, so either revenge or a message. Most likely to someone close to him, '_look what we can do to people you care about_' or, if not, '_look what we can do to your agents_'. I'm going for the former. This was a personal crime."

Mycroft groaned and Sherlock's head snapped round like a tango dancer to see a glimmer of anguish fading from his brother's face just before he managed to conceal it again.

"Mask slipping, Mycroft?" Sherlock taunted him. "So the latter then, all about your agents ... unless ... what was the Hammond agent to you?" he mused out loud. "Surely not ..." Sherlock stopped speaking and stared at his brother, "... the Iceman melteth!"

Molly, who had been studying Mycroft's face, hadn't picked up the change in posture, the small twitches and slight eye movements that Sherlock had noted and found so inexplicable. She did know people though and that groan was enough for her to piece it all together and feel the unexpressed emotion in Mycroft's demeanour. She imagined how much more marked it would be the moment that he was alone and tears came unbidden to her eyes on his behalf.

Sherlock was about to speak again and Molly knew it wouldn't be from kindness to his brother. Too much to hope that Sherlock would be dumbstruck or feel compassion for his brother and hold his peace, so it was up to her. She wondered if she could pull off a rugby tackle or that he would for once be stoppable with words alone.

"Sherlock, that's enough," she said gently.

* * *

Mycroft had taken a back pew through out the funeral in respect to his former lover's family. They didn't need the man's homosexuality rubbed in their faces at a time like this, not with the grieving widow at centre stage. This wasn't his show, but he at least needed to show his respects and say goodbye to Parky.

Molly had slipped quietly into the pew next to him, squeezed his arm and then sat in companionable silence while they waited for the service to commence. He hadn't been expecting that and before he thought what he was doing he put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her slightly, whispering a '_thank you_' softly into her hair.

Later, much later, he would place a single, white calla lily on the grave, but not while the family were having their moment.

* * *

_**Pierre-Guy Lavoie, a 22-year-old Canadian hacker, was sentenced to 12 months of community service and placed on probation for 12 months for fraudulently using computer passwords to perpetrate computer crimes. He was sentenced under Canadian law.**_

_**Sook or Sookie: Canadian slang for crybaby in this context**_

_**Eh? is slightly misused when Paul talks, it is generally used to ask for a response of agreement or disagreement, similar in meaning to "don't you think" or "right?" Paul is nervous and wants Molly to agree with him, though.**_

_**Not a lot of love around for Dirk and I suspect there was a reason his name rhymes with jerk or berk! Poor fictitious guy! Shame Molly never got to know Paul though, I suspect when he's not trying to be someone he's not, he's a really nice guy and would suit her - hearth and slippers kinda guy looking for someone who's not duplicitous for work purposes... someone who shares his dry humour and love of Lewis Carroll.**_

* * *

_**Thanks to MapleLeafCameo for her invaluable advice on Canadian slang and proofreading skills. Hope I've done your wonderful people some justice. Also given me a great excuse to watch some episodes of Due South - useless for research, but great for Constable Fraser moments.**_

_**Thanks also to Edhla who has courageously proofed this again and given some really great advice. Not all taken up, but all considered seriously and with great respect. **_**=;-D**


End file.
